The freezing wind bites at your face as you make your way back to the castle barracks, your body exhausted from the grueling training session. Every muscle aches from the day's exertions, and your hands sting with cold despite your gloves. As you trudge through the snow-covered training grounds, the powdery snow crunches under your boots with each weary step. The figure of Sir Jasper The Strong emerges from the shadows of the stone archway, his imposing presence unmistakable even from a distance.

“Recruit,” he calls out, his gruff voice cutting through the cold air like a blade. “Walk with me.”

You fall in step beside him, your breath visible in the frigid air as small clouds with each exhale. His authoritative demeanour is intimidating—broad shoulders, military posture, and eyes that seem to evaluate your every movement. You can feel the weight of his scrutiny as you walk in silence through the snow.

As you enter the barracks, you find it empty, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the icy training grounds. The smell of burning wood from the hearth mixes with the faint metallic scent of armor polish. Sir Jasper begins to remove his armour with precise, practiced movements, each piece clinking as it hits the wooden table. You follow suit, your fingers numb from the cold fumbling with the buckles.

He glances openly at the semi engorged bulge visible through your tunic, and nods approvingly. “That’s a fine unit you have there,” he says, his tone still authoritative but with a distinct hint of interest that wasn’t present during training.

Without asking for permission, he reaches out to nudge it, his calloused knight’s hand making contact with your body in a deliberate, intimate gesture that crosses professional boundaries.